


Pain

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Batman/Wonder Woman - Freeform, Bruce and Clark are best friends, Bruce is high on pain meds, Clark is right and they'll have stuff to discuss after this, Clark taking care of Bruce since forever, Crack, Developing Relationship, Fluffy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Other, Pre-Slash, Ridiculous Crack, Wonderbat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 00:46:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15231681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: “I’m not silly… I’m the Batman!” he objected indignantly. Diana smiled again.But she said soothingly, “Of course, Bruce. You terrify all the villains.” He gave her another wide grin.“Gooood. Tha’s a good thing. Right, Diana?” he asked.“Yes, Bruce. That is a good thing,” she reassured.In other words, Bruce gets hurt and refuses to be nice to himself. So Clark, and J'ohn, take matters into their own hands. I.E. they give Bruce pain meds, and he gets really high.





	Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: I do not own any of these characters, DC Comics does. This is pure crack, with some fluff. I honestly have no idea how Bruce would really react. Maybe actually like this? I do not know.

Batman materialized in the dark and silent transport room and allowed himself to groan aloud in discomfort; no one was present as it was currently 3:05 a.m. Besides, he didn’t give a damn. Every bit of his body ached, and he realized, with more annoyance than proper alarm, that due to his injured state, he’d left a few droplets of blood behind. Cursing the gun-toting punks, and the past few weeks in general, he limped towards his destination with a hiss of pain from his protesting ribs. His destination? The Medical Bay. From the blood, and the pain, he suspected he’d ripped open his stitches, not to mention the fresh wound from tonight: a bullet that was still very much lodged inside his leg right now; the fact that it was still there was probably the only thing keeping him from bleeding out. Overall, from an outsider’s perspective, Batman was in sore shape right now. Even he admitted, grudgingly, that he was less than 100% right now. 

Walking down the hall was a process more tiring than Bruce Wayne wanted to admit. His ribs burned every time he took a breath, which meant that one or more— most likely more— was broken, or at least sprained. The spot where he had most likely burst his stitches ached and felt distinctly wet to the touch— blood loss. His thigh where the bullet was burned and felt like Superman himself had decided to abuse it. Additionally, his body just felt heavy. No better way occurred to Bruce to describe the feeling. Between the average of seven hours of sleep he’d gotten for the whole past week, the stitches, the bullet, the ribs, and the fall from that roof he’d had, he was tired. And it showed. 

He sighed as he reached Medical Bay’s doors and they slid open with a hiss. The lights turned on automatically and he slunk over to a bed, removing clothing items as he went. He left them strewn like bloody black breadcrumbs across the floor, too tired to care—not that anyone else would see him like this anyway. And he’d be sure to erase the security footage before he left just to be safe. Hell, he never came up here when he was hurt, even during missions. No, he only gave Alfred the special permission to see him in a state like this— which would surely provoke snappy comments about needing to care more for his own well-being from the British butler. But Alfred wasn’t here right now. He was in England, visiting a sick relative. 

Two days ago, the Batcave: 

Batman limped home in the bat mobile, holding his side to lessen the alarming rate the blood flowed out of his body. He was thankful for autopilot on nights like these. As the car pulled into the cave, it braked automatically, and when he didn’t get out immediately, Bruce saw Alfred, who was already in the cave, come striding quickly over. Bruce released one bloody hand from his side and opened the hood of the car. 

“Master Bruce!” the butler exclaimed in alarm as the Batman stumbled out of his vehicle, one area of his black suit darker with what could only be blood, based off the slick liquid red that coated his hands. 

“A-Alfred. Got stabbed,” the billionaire hissed before collapsing in a heap on the cave floor. 

“Oh, dear!” Alfred exclaimed, rushing to his surrogate son’s side. 

Much later, Bruce regained consciousness with a jerk. This nearly interrupted Alfred’s perfect stitching. After a few seconds of disoriented panic, Bruce realized where he was and let out a groan of pain as he felt the familiar tug of a needle running through his skin. But it was strangely dull— Alfred must have given him a local anesthetic. Alfred saw that his patient was awake and put the opportunity to good use. “Master Bruce,” he said patiently, “I will remind you that I am departing for England in two days’ time. Please, do refrain from injuring yourself further when I am gone. I will not be here to patch you up.” 

“Sure, Alfred. I’ll do my best,” the billionaire dead-panned. Alfred offered one needlessly sharp tug with the needle to punish the snarkiness in his master’s tone. Bruce had utterly no concept of self-preservation. 

“Do try, Sir,” he said. 

Now: 

All Batman had on was a long-sleeved, black undershirt and a pair of spandex shorts that were knee-length. The clothing hugged his body like a second skin and left nothing to the imagination. Before doing anything to himself, Bruce always gathered all the supplies he might need. He sterilized his hands. Then he began to cut away at his shorts around the area that the bullet had entered. After this was done, he grabbed the sterilized wipes and doused them in rubbing alcohol and pressed them to the wounds in his side, the various scratches that covered his body, and to the bullet wound. He assessed his needs once this was done. 

The bullet was urgent, but he wasn’t bleeding as ferociously from that wound as he was from the open stitches; those would take precedence. He grabbed the tape and quickly taped the two sides of the gash together temporarily and then began sewing his own skin shut with quick, practiced movements. To his credit, he only let out a few grunts of pain at the procedure. Once done, he wiped the blood off his hands with a towel, then sterilized the freshly stitched area again for good measure. Just as he was about to begin inspecting some of the other cuts and scrapes on his body, a voice interrupted. 

“My god, Bruce! It’s like a nightmare in here. Why didn’t you get J’ohn or I? You’re hurt!” exclaimed the big blue boy scout. Batman was so out of it that he hadn’t noticed Clark’s entrance and jumped at his words. Then he visibly winced at the movement of his ribs. Clark flew to his side and scanned him with x-rays. He stumbled back, looking appalled at what he saw. “Bruce,” he whispered, “you have a bullet in you, a stab wound, three broken ribs, a sprained calf-muscle, and a minor concussion. You need medical attention now. Why didn’t you see Alfred?” 

Bruce shook his head. “I’m fixing it, Clark. I didn’t see Alfred because he’s in England. I can patch myself up enough to wait until he gets back,” Batman said in a raspy, sickly voice. Clark narrowed his eyes and shook his head in irritation. 

“No, you can’t! I went to the transporter room and what did I find? A trail of blood, Bruce. Your blood. No, I’m getting J’ohn,” he said, flying off. For once, Batman was too tired to argue, and merely lay back in the bed, exhausted. 

Two hours ago: 

Clark Kent was a heavy sleeper. But years of being Batman’s friend had left an impression on him. He knew to be more vigilant when he wasn’t at home— even if that meant he was only on the watchtower. He also knew— via Bruce— to pay attention to any unusual noises one hears, as they could be your only warning of attack. So, even unconscious, when Clark heard someone transporting aboard the watchtower, and a groan of pain, he woke up immediately. He listened, asking himself who could possibly be here, hurt, at this ungodly hour. It could only be either Batman or intruders. Clark suspected it was Bruce because the man was known for the ungodly hours he kept, one, and two, the person sounded like Bruce. More importantly, he sounded like a Bruce in pain. A lot of it— because Bruce never, ever let anyone know he was in pain even when it was dangerous and prevented him from getting needed medical attention. 

He rushed to the transport room, intent on finding and helping his friend only to see that he was nowhere to be found. But he’d left evidence that he’d been there… in the form of a trail of small to medium sized droplets of blood. This caused a pang of alarm to shoot through Clark. An injured, bleeding Batman? That couldn’t be good. And if he was here, on the watchtower, there was only one place he could be: Medical Bay. So, Clark went to rescue his friend; from himself. 

Present Time: 

Clark had woken a sleeping Martian and explained everything in a rush. The Martian had blinked slowly at him, then risen from the bed with purpose. The two aliens then quickly returned to Medical Bay. Once there, Clark was appalled to see that Bruce was attempting to dig out the bullet that was lodged in his thigh. He was perched on the bed, his injured leg bent, two pliers keeping the wound open as Bruce slowly fished around in the hole in his leg with an absurdly large pair of tweezers, ignoring the steady gush of blood that left the wound and ran down his leg. Clark grew nauseous at the sight, only able to imagine the pain his friend was going through right now as he dug a bullet out of his own leg. With a triumphant— or painful— snarl, Bruce removed the shiny, bloody, oblong object from his leg and held it up for Clark to see, smirking tiredly. Just now, Clark noticed the bruising under his friend’s eyes too and the 5’o’clock shadow that graced his face. J’ohn said nothing, simply frowned. Clark sighed, shaking his head. 

J’ohn floated over to Batman and observed him for a moment, eyes flashing orange. “Get out of my head, J’ohn!” Bruce snarled. J’ohn’s eyes returned to normal. 

“You are in serious need of medical attention, Batman. Not to mention, you have attained little sleep over the past week. You must rest,” said the Martian. 

“I’ll rest in the manor,” Batman growled, trying to sit up. 

“No!” Clark and J’ohn said at the same time. 

“No?” Bruce said dangerously, not used to being ignored when he was in Batman mode. 

“No,” J’ohn said firmly, eyes flashing orange again as Bruce protested, “rest, Bruce Wayne. Sleep.” Batman’s eyes fluttered shut, not under his own volition. J’ohn held one hand to his forehead, in apology. He turned to Superman, saying, “There was no other way. He would not have cooperated.” 

“I understand, J’ohn. But how long will he be out for?” Clark asked. 

The Martian moved away from the sleeping man and grabbed a needle. As he injected it into Batman’s arm, he said, “Not long under my influence. He usually has incredibly strong mental shields. Only his current level of injury had allowed me to act in this way to him. But, I am administering a sedative that should keep him under for about 8 to 10 hours. In the meantime, if you would let me work?” Superman nodded, heading for the door. 

“Let me know when he wakes up, ok? I’ll bring Diana by— he’ll want to see her,” he said. The Martian nodded absently, already looking over Batman’s wounds with an assessing eye. 

Twelve hours later: 

He opened his eyes groggily. For the first time in a while, he had awoken having absolutely no idea where he was. This should have bothered him. But, he felt sleepy and like there were cobwebs in his brain— but pleasant ones. These ones made him feel fuzzy and warm. He couldn’t feel angry. He blinked owlishly and tried to sit up. The sharp flash of pain made him hiss, and brought a little more clarity to him as he flopped back against the pillows. Multiple pillows. All incredibly soft. Right, he remembered where he was now: on the Watchtower. Then he looked over to his right, frowning in confusion. His brain just didn’t seem to be working today. Why was there an i.v. attached to him? What was he still doing here? Surely Bruce Wayne had something important to attend to even if Batman did not. He reached out a hand to disconnect the device from his wrist when a foreign, female hand grabbed his, the surprising strength of her grip stopping his movements. This caused his eyebrows to come together in confusion, something that made his unknown female assailant chuckle. He hazarded a guess. “Diana?” 

She scooted closer, and his dilated, drugged-up eyes met hers. He smiled lopsidedly and looked more out of it than she’d ever seen him. I should ask J’ohn what he’s got Bruce on, she thought in amusement. “What’re yoooou doin’ ‘ere?” he slurred. Diana took his captured hand in her own and squeezed gently. 

“Visiting you, silly,” she said, unable to keep a slight tease out of her voice. He was just so adorable like this. He didn’t object to her holding his hand, she noticed— probably because of the drugs. Instead, he looked confused again, like a lost puppy. 

“I’m not silly… I’m the Batman!” he objected indignantly. Diana smiled again. 

But she said soothingly, “Of course, Bruce. You terrify all the villains.” He gave her another wide grin. 

“Gooood. Tha’s a good thing. Right, Diana?” he asked. 

“Yes, Bruce. That is a good thing,” she reassured. He sighed, suddenly closing his eyes. 

“Do you want to sleep, Bruce?” she asked. 

“M’ warm,” he said. 

“Are you too warm?” Diana asked, standing. 

“No… ‘s nice. Wanna sleep,” he mumbled. 

“Ok, Bruce,” she said, gently tucking him in. He snuggled further under his blankets, black hair a ruffled mess. The heart monitor on the side of the bed gently slowing, letting Diana know when he was asleep. Before she left, she planet a gentle kiss on his forehead. 

As she was halfway to the door, he raised his head a half inch and slurred, “Wha’ that for?” She paused. He wouldn’t remember this in the morning. 

“I like you,” she said. 

“Oh,” he said, head now down on the pillow again, “I like you too, Diana.” With that, he proceeded to snore. Diana paused in the doorway a little longer, butterflies zooming around her stomach at his confession. 

“Sweet dreams, Bruce,” she whispered, finally leaving the room. 

Later: 

The next time he was awoken, it was to the sound of wheels in his room. He blinked, sighed, and readjusted the covers. “Sorry! I didn’t wake you, did I?” asked Clark. 

“No, Boy Scout, you didn’t,” Bruce said, then giggled. He giggled. Clark raised an eyebrow. He’d have to ask J’ohn what the stuff he had Bruce on was. 

“Boy Scout, am I? Well, this ‘Boy Scout’ has your food. I hope you’re hungry,” he said. 

Bruce nodded eagerly. “I could eat a whale,” he proclaimed deadly serious. Clark chuckled internally. Yes, this was quite entertaining. 

“Here you go,” he said, setting down Bruce’s tray of food. Bruce eagerly unveiled the food to see a heaping pile of eggs, bacon, kale, and a cream cheese bagel. He licked his lips hungrily and started eating like a wolf. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Slow down. It looks like you haven’t eaten in a month, Bruce!” Clark said. 

In between bites, Bruce said, “Yes, I haven’t eaten in a while. And this is reeaallly goooood.” Clark smiled at his usually sullen friend’s suddenly positively cheery attitude. 

“I’m sure it is, Bruce,” he said. Once the dark night had finished eating, he yawned. 

“You tired, Bruce?” Clark asked, smiling secretly at his friend’s behavior. 

“No, he replied sullenly, snuggling further under the covers, yawning. 

“Do you want me to go?” Clark asked. Bruce grunted, his eyelids already closing heavily. 

He said, sleepily, “You aren’t allowed to tuck me in like Diana.” Then he began to snore. Clark shook his head. Boy were Bruce and Diana going to have things to talk about after he got better… 

That night: 

This time, Bruce woke of his own volition, so used to the habits of late night crime fighting. He blinked his eyes against the dark, only the glow of the machines providing light. He grinned like an idiot. He liked the dark. It made the bad guys more scared of him. Suddenly, a voice asked, “How are you feeling, Batman?” 

“J’ohn?” he asked, having jumped slightly. 

“Yes, Batman. No need to be alarmed. I only wish to see how you are doing,” came the reply as the alien was suddenly visible. 

“Don’t do thaaaaat,” whined Bruce. 

“Do what?” asked the Martian calmly. 

“Your mind-voodoo,” Bruce said, making a random gesture near his head. 

“Ah, that. I will try to avoid your thoughts in the future,” the Martian promised as he injected something into Bruce’s i.v. Suddenly, Bruce felt even warmer and cozier. He sighed through heavy eyelids that were rapidly closing. 

"Good night, J'ohn, my green Martian man," he said.


End file.
